The Prodigal Wife (25 page)

Fliss thought about what Cordelia had said earlier, and her own views about the civilizing effect of having other people about.

‘I've lived like this since I was eleven years old,' she said. ‘And then, when I was married to Miles, he was away for such a lot of the time. First with the Navy and then in Hong Kong. You were the same. We've never done normal, have we? I think this suits me.'

‘Just as well,' he said. ‘Let's hope Henrietta feels the same way.'

The moon balanced on the rim of the hill, its light pouring down on bleached fields and casting sharp shadows beneath thorn hedges. It seemed to roll along the summit, bouncing gently over peaks and across valleys, until it rose at last, lifting itself clear of the earth.

‘One night,' Jo had said, ‘when there's a full moon, we'll go up to Crowcombe Park Gate and along the top of Harenaps. It's amazing how much you can see by moonlight. You'll love it.'

Standing at the window, Henrietta pulled her warm, crimson pashmina more closely around her. Her feet were bare and she wriggled her toes into the soft thick rug. Tomorrow Jilly would be gone and she would see Jo again: it was five days since she'd seen him, though they'd texted each other several times a day.

‘We simply can't risk it,' she'd told him. ‘Jilly and Susan are very old friends and Jilly will go straight back to London and tell everyone. It wouldn't be so bad if you weren't so well known but she'll be so excited. I know it's frustrating to keep it a secret but I still can't decide how to tell Susan that I shall be leaving. She's going to find it really hard. First Iain and then me. Part of me is tempted to wait until she gets back, so I can do it face to face, and part of me feels it's only fair to telephone her so as to give her plenty of time to think about it.'

She shivered in the bright moonlight: odd how the moon seemed to grow smaller as it rose higher. Henrietta leaned her forehead against the cold glass, one knee on the window seat. The trouble was that she didn't quite know how to open such a conversation. Would she chat as if nothing had happened and then introduce it into the conversation? Or start straight off with the news?

Maggie had telephoned to check that all was well, and had sent Susan's love and said that the children were missing her; and Henrietta had said, very casually, that everything was fine and that Jolyon Chadwick had been to collect the books. She'd had cards from Susan and the children, but the messages had been strictly of the tourist variety and she still had no clue about how Susan was feeling. It would have been good to talk it over with Jilly – after all, she knew Susan really well – but it simply wouldn't be fair to swear her to secrecy.

‘I want to tell my friends myself,' she'd said to Jo. ‘I don't want other people doing it for me. Anyway, it's not official yet, is it? I can't wait to go and choose my ring.'

He'd called her after his meeting with Maria, still sitting in his car at Dartington. He'd sounded odd and flat, as if all emotion had been drained out of his voice, and she'd wished they'd been together then. She was glad Maria knew now; that Jo had felt strong enough to tell her. It seemed almost impossible to believe that she'd once dreaded anyone suspecting anything was going on between her and Jo, when now she felt so happy about it all that she wanted everyone to know about it. That afternoon at The Keep when he'd behaved so indifferently, as if they were indeed just casual friends, she'd utterly hated it. Just for a while his indifference had seemed real and, as she'd watched him with Lizzie, she'd felt frightened that she'd lost him; that her almost paranoid fear had somehow put him off. That's why she hadn't wanted him to come over while Jilly was with her: she simply couldn't go through that again – and, anyway, Jilly would have smelled a life-size rat.

She suddenly made up her mind. Tomorrow, once Jilly had gone, she would telephone Susan and tell her the truth. It was foolish to drift on, making everyone keep the engagement a secret, afraid to see Jo if friends were around. They would go to Bath together and buy the ring and then anyone could know and they could be free and happy.

Having made the decision she was filled with exhilaration; she took a deep breath, longing for tomorrow when she would see Jo. She tried to imagine them together, living in the gatehouse.

‘You'll want to change a lot of stuff,' he'd said. ‘It's a typical bachelor's pad. I've always had The Keep across the courtyard if I needed home comforts. We'll want to be more independent.'

She wondered how she would manage; whether communal life would suit her once she was married. She could see no real reason why not. After all, she'd loved the life in London – and she'd spoken to Lizzie about it too, just to get a feel of life at The Keep.

‘I think you have to have the right kind of temperament,' Lizzie had said. ‘I lived in a flat with three other girls before I came here and I'd never known it any other way. It works fine for me. I've got my own quarters but the Chadwicks are brilliant about making you feel part of the family while respecting your privacy. I suppose it must be rather like living in a convent, or on board a ship. The point is that they've always been used to it too. Luckily there's masses of space, and a nice generational cross-section. It might not work if it were, say, two families with young children trying to do it together but we've got Sam, who's nearly twelve, at one end, and Prue at eighty-three at the other and everyone else in between. Sam brings his friends home at half-term or in the holidays, and his uncle, Charlie, and my two brothers come down to stay, as well as the other Chadwicks, so it's great. If you like that kind of thing. I come from an army family so I'm used to a lot of coming and going.'

‘It sounds like fun,' Henrietta had said.

She'd meant it; she'd been lonelier than she cared to admit during these last weeks and she wondered how she'd have managed these two months without Jo in her life. She was really looking forward to having people around again, and to having some work to do. It had been rather a treat, at first, to have no commitments but to walk the dogs, check out the two aged ponies in the paddock, and sit and read in the warm autumn sunshine. Now, she'd begun to feel restless; the wet days seemed endless and she was ready to move on. Of course, she'd stay with Susan until she found a new nanny – and it would be fun to be in London again for a while – but now everything was different and she couldn't wait to be with Jo, and to start their new life together.

 

‘So Simon is dead.' Angus stood at the window watching the moon's reflection in the black, choppy, river water. ‘And this woman…To be honest, I can hardly take it in. And you just sat there talking to her as if you were old friends.'

‘You sound like Hal,' Cordelia said drowsily. ‘Honestly, darling, I'm exhausted. Do you think we could just go to sleep?'

He turned towards her, coming back to the bed and sitting on its edge. ‘I can't seem to relax,' he said. ‘And I still feel anxious about your being alone, even with McGregor there.'

‘That's why I stayed tonight,' she told him. ‘It seemed silly to go back again when we could be together here. And it's been so nice to have an evening at the pub and then to walk back without worrying about drinking and driving, hasn't it? It's been fun, after the anxieties of the last week. Or perhaps I'm being heartless? I mean, Simon is dead.'

‘No,' Angus said quickly. ‘Not heartless. After all, you and Simon have been out of touch for such a long time. Poor old Si.'

‘I do feel sad,' she admitted. ‘A part of me hoped that all this nonsense
was
Simon, working himself up to a reconciliation. I feel that an opportunity has been missed and that's what makes me sad. And I really don't know how Henrietta will take it. Oh, I'm sorry, Angus, I really am. You must be sick to death of me going on and on about Henrietta, but I just didn't need this now when she's so happy and I really believed that she and I were beginning to move forward.'

‘I feel responsible too,' he reminded her. ‘We're all involved.'

‘I know.' She watched him affectionately – and rather guiltily. Her love for him had become stronger again now he was back in his own place. He belonged here, and she was happy to be his guest, and the ease between them had returned; just in the same way that it worked so well when he visited her. All her instincts told her that this was how it must be for them both and, as soon as they'd met again earlier, she'd guessed that he'd been feeling exactly the same. Their particular kind of intimacy was very special. It might not have the depth and understanding that forty years of ups and downs of marriage and parenthood brought to a relationship, but their friendship worked very well. Why risk it by demanding more? This last week together had given them both a great deal to think about and neither of them had been foolish enough to put those thoughts into words.

‘I just wish I could really believe it's over,' he was saying. ‘What you've told me is so utterly bizarre that I'm afraid that it's just another trick. You know?'

‘Trying to lull me into a false sense of security?' Cordelia suggested. ‘You really
are
beginning to sound like Hal. We've been through all this once and it's too late to go through it all again. Come back to bed, Angus. Let's sleep on it.'

He stood up and pulled the curtains together; she opened her mouth to protest – she loved to see the moonlight pouring in – and shut it again. His house, his rules: she put out her arms and pulled his chilled body close, holding him in her arms, warming him.

 

As they drove through the lanes and out to the coast, Maria could feel her spirits rising. Cordelia's telephone call, coming so soon after the meeting with Jolyon, had done much to restore her confidence. It had been so good to be able to say very casually: ‘Oh, yes, that was Cordelia Lytton, the journalist. I'm sure you've heard of her,' and Penelope and Philip
had
heard of her – Pen had read some of her books: ‘Terrific fun, Maria, but informative too. I'll lend you one' – and she'd been able to bask in their envy. If only she could have said that Jolyon was engaged to Cordelia's daughter, but she hadn't dared break her promise to Jolyon and, anyway, that disclosure would be something to look forward to later on. It had been just a bit embarrassing to have to say that the Chadwicks hadn't invited her over and that it didn't seem as if she'd be seeing Jolyon again this weekend. (‘Would you like to invite him here?' Penelope had asked hopefully. ‘We could have a little drinks party.') Maria had had to tread rather carefully, implying that Jolyon was very busy with his new TV programme and that, anyway, she'd really just come down to look at a couple of houses. And that was humiliating in itself, because now, after what Jolyon had said, there was clearly no point at all in looking at houses, though she'd had to go through the motions of being keen and excited about the cottages Philip had found on the internet. She'd been quite clever about that, pretending that she was still undecided and telling Penelope about a really rather wonderful flat in the Cathedral Close in Salisbury; but then of course old clever clogs Philip had asked all about the flat and had said he'd have a look at it on the internet so that Penelope could see it too. Not that it really mattered – after all, it wasn't a lie; there
was
a flat in Sarum St Michael – and Philip had printed off the details, but then, of course, Penelope had pointed out that it was only a one-bed flat, not knowing it was all she could afford, and she'd asked where the boys could stay when they came to visit her, and it had all been a bit tricky. And so she'd hastily said that there was another flat in Century House in Endless Street, which was the one she'd
really
love and, of course, Philip had to find that one too, and then old Penelope had really gasped and stretched her eyes at the price and she, Maria, had had to point out that it
was
in a Grade II listed Georgian building and it had two bedrooms, as well as a parking space – ‘Gold dust, Pen, I promise you,' – and she'd made a big point about how she might miss her friends and the bridge club if she moved to Devon…

‘Rather nice,' Cordelia was saying, ‘to have chums with a holiday cottage in Salcombe.'

‘It makes a change from The Keep,' Maria said quickly, wanting to give the impression that she had choices. She felt suddenly shy, wondering how to introduce the subject of Henrietta and Jolyon whilst still smarting from the knowledge that she'd been excluded from their secret. Cordelia saved her the trouble.

‘Isn't the news wonderful?' she asked, so naturally and easily. ‘Such a surprise to us all. The engagement, I mean. And isn't it tiresome to be sworn to secrecy about it? Honestly, the young can be so intense, can't they? But I'm afraid you must blame my daughter for it. Did Jo mention the reason to you?'

‘No,' said Maria quickly. ‘No, not exactly.'

How could she say that Jolyon hadn't trusted her enough even to tell her that they were in love; that he'd feared she might have made some unkind and hurtful remark to his beloved? Of course she couldn't and, anyway, Cordelia surely knew that already; she'd been at The Keep that weekend. Humiliation threatened to weaken her again and she tried to concentrate on what Cordelia was telling her. She was saying something about Henrietta needing to explain to her employer, Susan, that she'd be leaving her when she got married and she didn't want anyone else telling her first because Susan's husband had walked out and she was in a bit of a state…

To be honest, she didn't care too much about the details because she was so relieved that Cordelia didn't seem to know about how things were between her and Jolyon, and she was able to relax and look about her and allow herself to feel happy. And when she saw the row of coastguard cottages perched at the end of the cliff she gave a cry of delight, probably overdoing it just a tiny bit because she wanted to reward Cordelia for being so kind to her.

Though when she got inside there was no need to fake her amazement. She walked into a room that brimmed with brilliant, shaking light; the sea and sky were just one immense bowl of tremulous radiance that made her gasp and stand in silent awe. Even the great hound that rose up so regally from its bed seemed all part of the magnificence. Cordelia opened the French door for her so that she could step out into the big stone balcony, and she stood in silence, overwhelmed by the glittering expanse of water and by an odd, unsettling sense of infinity. For a moment, she was seized with a sense of absolute peace, as if the light had somehow drenched her soul in its purifying lustre and washed away all her weakness and pettiness: a baptismal process that cleansed her, lifted her above the foolish striving of this world and set her down in a new place. She gulped the sweet, salty air and suddenly realized that her cheeks were wet with tears.